She had compelled herself to start with the death of Dona Isabel
and to give him a succinct account of all that had followed.
O'Reilly read the story, fascinated. Here, amid these
surroundings, with the rattle of typewriters and the tinkle of
telephone-bells in his ears, it all seemed wholly improbable,
fancifully unreal--like the workings of some turgid melodrama.
That is how we came to live with Asensio and his wife [the letter
went on]. Imagine it! A bohio, hidden away far up the Yumuri, and
so insignificant as to escape attention. We are no longer people
of consequence or authority; our safety depends upon our
inconspicuousness. We hide as do the timid animals, though nature
has not given us their skill in avoiding danger. I do not like the
wilderness; it frightens me. At night I hear things rustling
through the thatch above my head; in the morning my feet touch a
bare earthen floor. We live on fruits and vegetables from
Evangelina's garden, with now and then a fowl or a bite of meat
when Asensio is fortunate. Esteban does not seem to mind, but I
cannot accommodate myself to these barbarous surroundings.
Sometimes I bite my tongue to keep from complaining, for that, I
know, would grieve him.
The whole country is in chaos. There is no work--nothing but
suspicion, hatred, and violence. Oh, what desolation this war has
wrought! Esteban has already become a guerrillero.
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